du_vallon | (no subject)

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Porthos had seen a glimmer of a familiar face in the crowds when he'd slipped through into the other city. It's not like he's truly familiar, but he knows that he'd seen him around Paris, which means that he knows that this man is someone he ought to know. More than that, he also knows he's one of the prettiest things he's ever seen and when he overhears him speaking French, he knows that he has to have him.

Waiting until he's distracted, Porthos yanks a blindfold over his eyes after he empties his pockets, hauling him over his shoulder and ignoring the kicking and protests.

Only when he's back through the seam and into the alleyways where he holds Court does he let him go, telling the few guards he trusts to leave them be in his maze of comfortable rooms, tying the man (the priest, isn't it, that's where he must have seen him) to a chair before he yanks off the blindfold, pouring wine in the corner of the room.

"What's a priest like you doing in a place like this?" he drawls, like he hasn't just kidnapped him here.

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"I took you because you're a very pretty man and you look like you come from my home. And, you speak my tongue. Which makes you, me, and the fussy priss who's very keen on name-calling," Porthos grunts, not wanting to think of Athos right now after their last poor encounter. "Right now, admittedly, I sort of just want to keep you."

"And if I get to debauch a priest today, more's the benefit for me."

"The fussy priss," says Aramis. Something in his brain is firing, making connections he'd never have made if his adrenaline weren't quite so high, but when Porthos says that all he can think of is the boy Athos had been for a few weeks.

"I do belong to someone," he says, quieting the hammer of his heart. If this were a game, he'd love nothing more than for Porthos to debauch him, but he's increasingly sure this isn't one. "And my God is a jealous one. Forgive me, were you speaking of Athos, the Comte de la Fere?"

What a shame, if he's saying that he's belonging to God and not to Porthos, possibly. When Aramis talks about the other man, he raises a brow. "It's de la Fère, yes," he agrees, trying to understand how the two of them know each other. Something more dangerous crosses Porthos' face suddenly. "Do you share his ideals and thoughts, too?"

He wonders if this pretty face is about to turn on him, start calling him a mongrel, too.

Aramis must be mad, because the instant Porthos' face darkens, his instinct is to soothe, not hide. "I don't know him well enough to say," he says. This man doesn't appear to be friends with Athos then, and certainly not brothers. Aramis' head spins. This is all so very strange, and even now, so close to a man he thinks he knows so well, Aramis can't decide if the game is theirs, or Darrow's.

"Porthos," he says. "Break for a moment, please." Aramis takes a breath. "This game is getting to me. What is our daughter's name?"

"What're you playing at?" is his reply, wary and unsure as to what Aramis might be hinting at. "I've never met you before today." Daughter? "Aren't you a priest? Don't think priests are supposed to be going out and having kids. Pretty sure your God would find that fairly sinful."

"Porthos," says Aramis, a touch of an edge in his voice now, "Stop this." Porthos is always the first to break character, it makes no sense that he'd be the one committed to the act. "I don't want to play right now. Tell me our daughter's name before I become truly alarmed."

"I really don't know what you're talking about," growls Porthos as he tightens his grip on Aramis' wrists and gives him a warning look. He doesn't appreciated being spoken to like he's losing his mind and right now, it's got that feeling to it. "You tryin' to pull one over on me? Make me feel stupid?"

Porthos' grip tightens to the point of pain, and Aramis feels the blood drain from his face. It isn't an act. Darrow has done something to Porthos, or replaced him, and who's to say that Aramis is the only one this false Porthos has seen fit to kidnap?

"Where is he?" he growls back, arms jerking hard beneath Porthos' grasp. "Where is my Porthos, did you take him, too? If you've hurt him I swear I'll take your Court down brick by brick."

Porthos only tightens his grasp on Aramis, hand slipping up to his neck so he can squeeze out the words that trickle out if he has to, a warning look in his eyes. He won't kill him, but Aramis doesn't need to know that. "I'm the only Porthos here," he promises. "I can vouch for that and get my men, if you want a second opinion. You're in my city, pretty."

Aramis trembles with rage, though that is soon overtaken by an almost dizzying familiarity. He forcibly reminds himself that this is not his Porthos. He doesn't know him, he can't predict him, no matter how well he knows his own. Still, Aramis lifts his chin above the press of Porthos' hand and meets his eyes.

"You're wrong," he says. He doesn't want to endanger his own Porthos by sending this one out to find him, but there's no way that Porthos will leave this new city without him. "He'll come for me and you'll wish he hadn't. My Porthos has been a soldier for ten years, and he can take the lot of you."

Porthos wonders if there really is a second version of him somewhere around. He can't believe that there's any him that could possibly have been a soldier for ten years, though, and he relents to let Aramis speak, lets him have his throat back. "Or he never finds you and I get to keep you forever. Soldiers can't fight back against a knife in their side, then there'll only be one of us."

"You don't know him." Aramis fights down the nauseating rush of fear that this man might try, might actually cut down the better, beloved version of himself. "And I might not know you, but I can't believe that any Porthos would rob a stranger of someone he loves. You wouldn't take my husband from me just to do it. And you wouldn't orphan our child."

Porthos relents completely when the man starts talking of husbands, because that really, really means that he's definitely not a priest. "Husband," he echoes, going a touch pale as he thinks of a version of himself that could possibly be all of those things instead of just wanting them quietly and to no success.

He's not a murderer, but Aramis doesn't need to know that. "You married him?"

That's struck a nerve, and Aramis presses his advantage, eager to reach the part of this Porthos he knows must still be good. "Of course I married him," he says. "I'm not mad enough to let a man as magnificent as that slip through my fingers. He's gorgeous and kind and his heart is larger than any I've ever known." Aramis is surprised to find his eyes are hot, but it's been an age since he had to defend his own Porthos. "He's my entire world."

If anything has been missing from his life, it's this -- affection and love. Being King of the Court had been a lonely position where he could trust no one, not even his friends, and he'd yearned for simple contact. Apparently, he can't have even that and it shows. "So why not me?" he wonders. "Aren't I him? Leave him," he coaxes. "I'll shower you with all the riches you like. We'll bring the child."

"You're not him," says Aramis, and the look this false Porthos is giving him breaks his heart. There are seeds of his Porthos here, echoes and glimpses of what he might be, but he's not Aramis' husband. "You must be much alike. I can't believe a Porthos in any world could be as cruel as you pretend to be, but you are not my husband. I'd never take his child."

Aramis' hands flex against what remains of the ropes. "I can see that you want that. A family, yes? Why haven't you pursued it before? The Porthos I know has boundless love to give."

"I'm still a thief and I take what I want," Porthos warns, because this warm version of himself that they keep talking about isn't one that exists, as far as he's concerned. "You can't show weakness when you're King. If you have a family, it's just one more thing to go after. Besides, everyone just dies and leaves you or they just plain leave."

He knows what would happen if he offered his heart -- it would only lead to disaster. "Why should you get to go back to your husband and I have to stay here alone?"

"Because merely stealing somehow away is not how love works," says Aramis, remarkably gentle despite his peril. If this Porthos wishes to keep him here, Aramis has no doubt that he could do it. His only hope is to appeal to the better parts of Porthos - the ones that still feel hope.

"People do die, yes," he says. "They leave. Believe me, I know. But you are no stranger to fighting, are you? One does not become King of the Court if they are not brave." Aramis looks up at him. "It takes bravery to have a family as well. It might even require you to leave the Court. But what is it truly giving you? Are you happy?"

"It takes cunning and quick fingers, lack of morals and ruthlessness," is his response when Aramis talks about becoming King. He'd done it through shady back end deals that he's proud of, but it's not honourable by any means. "You don't want to be the one to cross me, I assure you that," he says, his voice dangerous and even.

He's about to open his mouth and say more when a booming, familiar voice cuts him off. Porthos turns and finds...well, himself, charging through with a crazed look in his eyes, brandishing a knife.

"Let him go," the soldier Porthos warns, edging closer to his prize. Porthos could hold steady and disarm him, but there's a mad look in his eyes that he doesn't want to challenge. "You'd better not have hurt him."

The chaos outside resolves to one man barreling through the door, and Aramis nearly weeps with relief. It can't be more than an hour since he last saw his own Porthos, but Porthos had become a woman, a boy, a teen just as fast, and he couldn't have said for certain until this moment that the real Porthos wasn't still out there. As intriguing as this new one is, Aramis wants his husband, and he sags for a moment in the chair with a fervent prayer of thanks to God.

"I'm alright," he says. "Please don't hurt one another, there's no need."

Porthos watches this new soldier carefully, weighing up the ways the man is similar to himself. They're of a height and almost of a weight, though the stranger is a little thinner than himself, which gives him the briefest flicker of potential victory before he realizes the scar and the muscles are a danger. He's come for the not-priest and Porthos wishes he didn't feel so suddenly aching about the fact.

He allows the soldier to wander to Aramis and free him of his binds, though the knife in his hand never gets released. "Who are you?" Porthos growls at the stranger.

"Apparently, you," the soldier replies, his hand protectively and possessively on Aramis' shoulder, a ring glinting. So this is what he did mean by husbands. How on earth is there a world where Porthos can get this and be a soldier at the same time.

"Don't they spit at you?" he wonders. "Want to hurt you and hang you for what you are? Who you love?"

"Not in Darrow," says Aramis, pushing his shoulder against Porthos' grip, anxious to feel that he's real and here and hasn't been replaced. "The people see him for who he is, a good, kind man who just happens to be built like an ox. I can't say they'd be pleased to see two men together in Paris, you know they would not be, but here we can be together without the need to hide."

He looks up at his Porthos, and when the last rope is cut he stands, fisting a hand in Porthos' sleeve. "This is a new madness, no? He says he's King of the Court at home."

Porthos keeps Aramis close because having this strange thief version of himself lingering around with a knife is putting him on edge. He knows what he could do with that blade and he definitely thinks it's cause for worry. "I left the Court at fifteen," Porthos insists.

"I didn't," the other one retorts. "I stayed. Got better at manipulating things. Figured things out and took over control when Charon and Flea couldn't. So now they serve me and I'm King and we do things my way," he says firmly. "We take from the ones who don't deserve it so the ones who do can live and eat and sleep. The King has no need for his riches. We do."

Porthos glances to Aramis and wraps an arm around his waist to hold him, not wanting to let go. "I serve the King," is his even response. "We both do, we're his Musketeers."

"More's the pity, then. You're stupider than I am."

"He isn't," says Aramis, but Porthos already knows it. Porthos had weighed his options and chosen to do good in another arena, and Aramis could not be prouder. "You're both doing good, in your way. Porthos is going to run for a city position," he says, trying not to smile, for he feels it will put this other Porthos off.

"Make changes from within, instead of constantly fighting for them from the outside."

It's a strange situation to be in. Both versions of Porthos stare at each other for a very long moment and eventually, a sort of detente seems to happen. The thief grunts at the soldier and nods to the side. "You'll have to go out the back way. Can't have the people who work for me thinking I let you go."

"And just remember," he says. "You get one free pass," Porthos warns. "Take your husband, get out of here. And don't come back." He might still be lonely, he might still want something like this, but he knows that's not the kind of life he's going to get.